Until the End of the World
by SarahCat1717
Summary: Written for the U2 Actung Baby fic challenge on tumblr. Song fic. Season 3 missing scenes. John listens to an old favorite song and sorts through memories and feelings about Sherlock and Mary. Pairings: John/Sherlock; John/Mary. First kiss. M/M


_Written for the Achtung Baby! U2 Songfic Writing Challenge hosted my redscudery on tumblr. I laid claim to Until the End of the World. Lyrics were originally dispersed within the body of the fic to indicate where my (and John's) thoughts were inspired by the song, but I was later reminded that it is against the user agreement for this site to post song lyrics. So now note that the ****** indicate where the 1st, 2nd and 3rd verses come into play._

John was steadfastly putting off calling Mary. Again. But this time he had an excuse right in front of him in the form of several boxes of pre-army personal belongings to go through. They were long since forgotten, having been stored in the guest room closet at Harry and Clara's old house. Harry and Clara had finally completely called it quits. The agent handling the sale of the home suggested clearing out all the closets of old clutter. So John found himself with dusty boxes that he hadn't opened since med school. Luckily, Harry had sent him an email about it instead of just dropping them off at John and Mary's house, the house John had not lived in since he found out Mary shot his best friend.

They hadn't spoken since that day of the revelation, not really. John accompanied Sherlock to the hospital in the ambulance when the rescue crew arrived at 221B. Sherlock was right, of course, about the internal bleeding. Mary had asked about following behind in the car. John gave her a look that indicated she would not be welcome in any which way, shape, or form. Since then it had been only short professional exchanges at the office and Mary's updates that she gave him about her obstetric appointments. It wasn't for lack of reaching out on Mary's part though. She brought him things she thought he needed from the house and asked him for his opinion about items for the baby. Mary tried to leave him his favorite meals in the fridge at work, but she stopped doing that when they went untouched for days. John couldn't look her in the eye without feeling like he was going to shake apart at the seams. He wondered what her eyes looked like when she raised her gun, pulled the trigger, and ripped a hole through Sherlock's chest.

As for Sherlock though, home from hospital for just two weeks and fighting John tooth and nail about going to every follow-up appointment, he was in touch with Mary. They texted and emailed. John suspected some of it was about him, but mostly it seemed to be about the baby. Just like the wedding planning, Sherlock didn't do anything halfway. John opened his laptop to find three different windows open in regards to reviews of baby cots. Mixed in with Sherlock's tumbled pile of journals on criminology and forensics, there was also a journal of child development with a page dog-eared on a study about infants' perceptions of black and white versus color objects at different ages.

The invitation to Sherlock's parents' house for Christmas loomed in the near future. John had made it a deadline in his own head. By Christmas he would need to decide what to do about Mary.

The truth was he missed his wife. He missed his Mary, the Mary that teased him into proposing to her while he shaved and that declared that she liked his acerbic best friend when John was still ready to rip the bastard's head off. And he missed the easy familiarity of just reaching out and laying a hand on her belly that harbored their child. Mary told him that she's been kicking. She invited him to feel it one slow day at the office. He couldn't bring himself to touch her like that just yet. She looked sad and turned back to her computer. He lingered in the doorway and wished things were different.

But equally, the truth was that it was good to be back at Baker Street. He almost lost Sherlock, for real this time. He was happy to be the one coaxing his friend to put some extra weight on after the weight he lost in the hospital. He was happy to chide him about trying to reach for things from the tops shelves too soon, even if it meant that John had to slide a chair over to fetch the book himself. Mostly, it was just good to have Sherlock nearby, warm and breathing and not dead. When the nightmares came, it was easier waking in his old bed in Baker Street than at home with Mary. Checking that Sherlock was still there and alive was only a stair case away. Sherlock never asked John to explain the midnight check-ins.

John shook off the decision he had to make and delved back into the boxes before him. Luckily, Sherlock was in the kitchen thoroughly engrossed in soil and sand samples from all the coasts of the British Isles. John had made requests of the followers of his blog and, sure enough, envelopes started arriving in no time. It was one of John's more inspired ideas and it kept Sherlock well-occupied during his prolonged recovery. So it left John alone in the sitting room to create piles for donating, a bag for the bins, and one pile for items he would keep.

He dug through old clothes and out of date medical texts. He chucked concert tickets from shows that he barely remembered attending. He ran his fingers over a pillow case that had his name stitched onto the inside hem in his mother's navy blue thread letters. John carefully placed that in the "keep" box.

John grabbed the next box only to discover it was deceptively heavy. It was piled full of his old CD collection. Made obsolete now by his iPod, John gave it a once-over anyway to see if there was anything worth keeping and converting to electronic files. He didn't know how, but luckily he lived with a tech genius. He quickly threw away a bunch of pop albums he was embarrassed to have once owned. There were some classics that he had repurchased on iTunes, and he did find a few gems that he forgot he liked.

"Huh" John thought out loud.

He held in his hands and album that he had to buy a second copy of after the had worn out the original cassette version that he had.

"Sherlock, mind if I put on some music?" He called into the kitchen.

"Is is terrible music?" Came the flat answer from his flatmate.

"Ummmm, _I _don't think it's terrible music."

There was a long sigh issued from behind the microscope.

"Earphones, John." Said Sherlock, gesturing with one hand to the pair hanging on the cow skull between the windows.

"Oh, right." Said John.

"And all this time I thought these were just for decoration." He said, maneuvering them down from their skeletal perch.

John didn't miss Sherlock's wry smile from the kitchen.

"You'll find they are actually studio-quality. They were a gift from not long before we met when I solved the case involving the sabotage of a recording artist's vocal chords via gradual poisoning. They were especially useful when I was studying the ambient noise patterns of different streets in London. Also useful when one has a flatmate that insists on sleeping so many hours per night. I can tell you about the poisoning case over dinner, I was thinking Angelo's? Unless of course you have other plans."

Sherlock tore his eyes away from his soil samples to search out John's response. He looked, well, happy, but as if he was trying to mask how happy he was. Sherlock was clearly pleased to have John back in the flat but knew that the reasons for his presence were not happy ones.

"I, no. I mean yes, of course, Angelo's sounds perfect." John responded.

Sherlock lit up but then roped in the expression and returned to the microscope.

"Good" the detective said simply.

John put on the padded earpieces and plugged the long wire into the stereo in the sitting room. He placed the disc in tray then hit the "random" button. The music started and John settled back into his sorting project.

When one hears a song about love they should think of their spouse, right? Well, John was most certainly not trying to think about his wife. Especially a song about closeness and trust and betrayal. Yeah, definitely not going to let his head go there. But John had this weird habit of never stopping a song after it had already started playing. Had been that way since he was a kid.

But not thinking about Mary to this song was surprisingly easy. Instead, John thought of Sherlock, and tried and failed at not stealing quick glances at his profile in the kitchen where he bent, still a little stiff, still healing, over his microscope.

He thought of them at the wedding. John remembered feeling so lucky, being seated between his new wife and his…well, his Sherlock. John replayed just the Sherlock-centric memories of his wedding day in his mind. Sherlock saying such nice things about John in his speech. Sherlock tensing as John hugged him. Would he not have tensed up like that had they not been in front of everyone? Sherlock's soft curls against his temple.

"Vatican Cameos"

John could now admit just how amazing of a thrill those words sent through him. He got to marry the woman he loved, save a life, and chase after the man he…chase after Sherlock.

John thought back to the dancing. Sherlock had informed he and Mary that they were going to have a baby. John was blown away by the news. He looked up to Sherlock's eyes and there it was. Just for a few moments. Sherlock looked at him so fondly, but also like it was the end of his world.

"We can't all three dance."

Mary had been holding his hand, her fingers playing with his wedding band. John thought back to those dance lessons in 221B. Sherlock chastising John for looking at his feet, reminding his to look up instead. But Sherlock never met his eyes. He looked straight ahead over John. His back was ramrod straight under John's hand. Last time they practiced, he was just a bit more pliable. Just a bit closer, but not too close. John thought he was just keeping up proper technique, but maybe he was trying to keep his distance for another reason.

Like it was the end of the world.

The next memory hit John like a kick in his gut. It hit deep and then spread out through his ribs, a hot-seeping ache.

He thought back to his stag night. Sherlock and his measurements and his phone app, John and his covert shots added to the mix. They sat in their chairs later that night, the warmth of the fire and the whisky singing through their veins. They played a game. They moved closer and closer. Then John's lips were on Sherlock's. He remembered dipping his head and catching Sherlock's mouth by surprise. His tongue and lips were so soft for someone whore words were so sharp. Sherlock sighed and kissed him back and John was so happy. He didn't think of Mary being mad. John was so damn happy he couldn't fathom that the beautiful event of kissing Sherlock Holmes could possibly be upsetting to anyone. John had smiled into the kiss and Sherlock started to draw back.

"We can't. You're getting married." Sherlock mumbled, his lips still brushing John's.

John was entirely too delighted to worry about it. Kissing Sherlock, apparently, had that effect on him.

"Just this once, yeah? It's my night after all. This's nice. Very nice." John drawled in return.

John made the mistake of opening his eyes to see why Sherlock drew back again.

"Just this once…" Sherlock whispered.

And the look in his eyes, god, the look in his eyes. It was like it was the end of the world.

Before the drunk version of John could do anything more with the knowledge of what he was doing to Sherlock, Sherlock surged forward and kissed John with his everything. John never felt so consumed and overwhelmed and lov…

Best not think about that.

Besides, there was Mrs. Hudson's voice rising up the stairs and the client who dated a ghost. Then there was nothing much else besides waking up in the drunk tank. Not the time when they were awoken by Greg, but rather some time before that. John woke up in the dim lighting, sitting on the floor next to a prone Sherlock up on the bench. John's arms had been propped up on his bent knees. Sherlock's eyes were hooded but open, fixed at some spot on the ceiling. His one arm dangled off the side and Sherlock tenderly held onto the cuff of John's shirt. He rubbed the fabric between his fingertips, the backs of his fingers brushing against John's wrist.

John didn't say anything. It was like that one little point of contact was holding together their whole world.

There was a time when John was drowning in apathy. After the heat and blood of the war he was left so numb. Then Sherlock showed up in his life and turned the lights and had all his neurons firing at once. Even when John was exhausted and angry he never once took for granted that he was better off with Sherlock in his life.

Then Sherlock left. John was drowning again but the water seemed colder and deeper and heavier. It was so fucking cold it passed out numb and went straight to constant , searing, lung-ripping pain.

Then Mary came along and, although it was never the same, it was an improvement. He wasn't drowning anymore. He could breath. He could put one foot in front of the other and smile and she smiled back. He did love her. He could have spent his life with her and he could have been…

But Mary shot Sherlock. She lied and lied and she almost took Sherlock away from John, just so she could keep John and her false life intact. Was it possible that John was what kept her from drowning? Lord knows she has enough anchors strapped to her from her past to pull her under.

And now they were going to have a baby. John wanted to meet her, the baby growing in Mary. He wanted to hold his child and love that baby's mother. John also knew, in his very realistic moments, that if things went too awry with Mary that she could make herself disappear again. She did it once. She could do it with a child too. John made vows to Mary. She was still the woman he loved. That wasn't fake. He felt the Mary he met was maybe the part of her that she always wanted to be. It was the part that flourished when her persona of killing was shed.

He knew that he would live up to his vows that he made to Mary. He would be there for his child and do whatever he could so that she grew up knowing that she had two parents that loved her. He also knew that, despite his best efforts and sincerest commitment to making it work, that it wouldn't last forever. He didn't know how and when, but it wouldn't stand the test of time. John knew this because he had something to compare it to. He had something that defied distance and death and hurt. John looked up from where he had been mindlessly flipping through CD cases to take in the sight of Sherlock in their kitchen. _Their_ kitchen. His best friend. His Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled his eyes from his microscope and locked gazes with John. He squinted briefly in that way that meant that his brain was processing every last detail of the scene like a supercomputer on steroids.

Sherlock made a gesture that indicated to John that he should take the earphones off.

John propped them up over his ears and lifted his chin to Sherlock to inquiry.

"I'm actually feeling a bit peckish, think I may have overlooked lunch. Mind if we head out for dinner early, say in fifteen minutes or so?"

"If by 'overlooked' lunch you mean that you spilled dirt from Mermaid Quay on the sandwich I put near your elbow so I thought it best to bin it before you accidentally took a bite, then yes, you overlooked lunch. And yeah, leaving early is fine by me. Just give me a few minutes to change out of these dusty clothes, ok?"

John pushed the box he was working on aside and went to get up off the floor. Sherlock had reached him in a few long strides and held out a hand to help him up. When John stood he found himself much closer to Sherlock that he had planned.

Sherlock held his eyes with something of a perfect balance between intensity and soft affection.

John cleared his throat and took a step back, making a show of brushing the dust from his jeans to gain a little distance.

"So, I'll just me a minute then. Wait for me?" John asked with a nervous smile.

"Of course, John."

Sherlock reached out and brushed some invisible dust from the cuff of John's shirt. He hung on to John's sleeve with his fingertips for just a fraction longer than would have been unintentional.

"I'll always wait for you, John, 'till the end of the world."

"What did you say?" John breathed.

Sherlock straightened and did one of his patented eye roll/dramatic sigh combinations.

"I _said_ **peckish** and yet we are still standing in the flat."

But it lacked bite.

John trotted up the stairs smiling.

A few minutes later they were clattering down the steps of 221B. Pausing to put on their coats Sherlock added ever so casually "John do you know that when you listen to music you silently mouth the lyrics?"

_Thanks so much for reading! Comments/constructive feedback is always greatly appreciated. It would make my day to hear from you. _


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